


I Left Myself in 1943 (Who the hell is Bucky?)

by originalblue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, Gun Violence, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Knives, M/M, Memory Loss, Needles, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalblue/pseuds/originalblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have a mission, but your mind is being split in two, and there's a man on the bridge, and you know him. You don't know why, but you know him.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Owe Me A Dance

There is a hole inside of you, and through that hole leaks memories. Things you shouldn't remember because they aren't you, they're someone else, they're _not, not me, not anyone, not anymore-_

When the hole opens enough for you to understand what's happened, they tie you back and put the plastic guard between your teeth, and then they use the machine's needles to sew a new black bag into your mind. You let them. It's easier when it's there.

If you fight it, they put on a second, and a third, and then they put you back in the box, and the cold creeps in, and the last thing you see is eyes, staring out of an unfamiliar face, a face that you know must be yours, but it's also someone else's, but that someone doesn't exist anymore, and then you feel nothing and the darkness folds around you.

You don't fight it anymore.

\-----

You wake up, and they give you your target.

“Nicholas J. Fury,” they say, and show you his picture.

Other Hydra operatives will be there first, but it's your job to step in if things go south.

You suit up.

\-----

You quickly realize that these Hydra morons aren't doing anything except knocking the target around.

You decide you've had enough of this inane car chase, and step out into the street.

The bomb slides smoothly up under his car, and you watch it latch onto the undercarriage.

It detonates almost immediately. You step aside as the car blows past you, a heap of burning wreckage that spins across the street.

Your gun is cocked and loaded, and you rip off the door.

But he's gone. He's burned his way into a sewer.

You grit your teeth, and ignore the Hydra men still arriving. They're slow and ineffectual. This is why they called you in.

You have hunting to do, but first you need to know where you're hunting.

You return to the base.

\-----

You're not wearing your goggles this time; it's too dark, and they cut your peripheral vision.

The target escaped when you confronted him earlier, so this has turned into a night job. You haven't slept. You don't need to. You'll sleep in the box again soon enough.

You're only one rooftop over, because whoever owns this apartment didn't think to check for sniper sights. This should be stupidly easy. You've calculated the thickness of the wall, and chosen your bullet carefully. You've spent five minutes setting up, watching him settle in and turn on some music. Your heat vision scope is invaluable here, showing you exactly where the target is, through several layers of brick and plaster and wood.

Then someone approaches from the landing, a bigger heat signature, much warmer than anyone you've seen so far. He enters the apartment carefully, sneaking around corners. The target doesn't know he's there at first. You wonder briefly if this other man intends to kill your target. It doesn't matter to you, as long as the target is dead.

Then they stand face to face, and speak, and your brief hope that your job will be finished by someone else is over. They're too relaxed – this other man must own the apartment, must be the target's friend or subordinate.

You carefully load five rounds into the magazine, hearing each click into place.

This is one of your favorite guns. It's an Accuracy International AWM, with a .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge. It has a folding stock, which makes it easier to fit into a backpack, easier to carry when traveling. You know your handlers modified it a little, to make it less recognizable and more accurate, but it still feels like every other rifle you've carried.

You line up the shot, accounting for wind with a moment's attention, and fire. It's a hit to the shoulder, right above the heart, but you take another shot for good measure. You see him go down. He'll be dead in minutes.

You could take a third, but the angle is awkward since he's on the floor, and someone is coming after you.

The man, the man who spoke to the target, he's seen light reflecting off your arm, and you curse the metallic sheen, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.

You sling your rifle over your shoulder and run, low and fast over the gravel-lined roof.

You can hear something, as you run, a thudding noise, repeating off tempo, just behind you.

When you reach the last roof, you look back, and he crashes through the door, the man who spoke with the target, and he's holding a metal disk that he flings in your direction.

 _A shield,_ you think, glimpsing the straps on its underside.

You catch it in your left hand, glaring at him. You've already completed your mission. This man's just delaying your return to base.

You throw the disk back, hard enough to knock him back a few steps, and as you jump over the edge and slip into the shadows below, you wonder how he caught it, since the force you used would have slammed a normal person into the brick wall behind him. Hard.

 _Super-soldier,_ you think. _Just like me._

\-----

There's the man, a target, standing in front of you, and you attack. You thrust forward, but are repelled. The disk has turned out to be a frustratingly durable shield with a star painted on it, and it reminds you of your arm, and the brand it carries.

You can't afford to hold back in this fight, because he's a super-soldier, you can tell for sure now, and his blows are matching yours.

The man's fingers press against your face, searching for purchase. To your irritation, your mask rips off as he pulls away.

This job has taken too long. The targets are experienced and are proving exceedingly difficult to eliminate, but the men Hydra has sent to assist you are little better than toy soldiers. They're just there to hand you guns and set the stage. It's your mission. Your hunt.

That's all you have. The mission. The targets. The orders.

You stand up, annoyed at having the mask taken. You've been ordered to keep yourself covered whenever in public. This world is unforgiving, and never forgets a face.

You turn back to your target, eyes burning, and see shock register in the target's face. His whole demeanor changes, shoulders half-relaxed, expression hopeful and confused.

“Bucky?” the target asks, voice full of longing.

And that word, that name, is a rip in the carefully sealed corners of your mind.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” you snarl back in English, gaze never leaving him.

There is something there. There is something in that name, and that voice, and there's a part of that face that's turning a knife in your stomach, and for a moment you consider stopping and asking him what the hell he means-

_-but you raise your gun, because the target is distracted and you have a clean shot, and the sooner you finish this, the sooner you can go back to sleep, back to the cold, back to the quiet in your mind-_

Someone's feet slam into your chest before you have a chance to react - the man in the flight suit, you realize - and you're already surging back to your feet, gun in hand-

Then you duck away, because someone's just fired a grenade over the target's shoulder.

 _Black Widow_ , you think with a hint of irritation. _Always more trouble than she's worth._ She's a legend, but you've faced her before, and you know she bleeds just like everyone else.

You take advantage of the smoke cover, slipping back to the rendezvous point. Your arm needs repairs, and you need orders.

You can't stop seeing the man's face as he asks quickly, like he's afraid of the answer: “Bucky?”

\-----

They wiped you last night. You should have had plenty of time to settle, but for some reason there are still soft spots in your memories. You wonder if it's because you fought them this time, not with your body like in the past, but with your mind, clinging desperately to that voice, that face, that word-

_-Bucky?-_

-that sounds like betrayal in your mind. You can't let that go. Not now.

There are new orders, and you still have your mission, but there's also a growing sense of dread in the pit of your stomach that you have no idea how to handle.

You've disposed of the soldier with the flight suit. You felt no satisfaction when your taser hook bit into his wing, ripping it off before you tossed him over the side. But the target's still on the helicarrier, so that's where you need to stay. The target will attack. You have to defend. Under no circumstances should the target be allowed to tamper with the helicarrier in any way. Your orders are to minimize damage to the ship itself, especially the central processor.

You're prepared for the target to step onto the ramp. You're completely still, waiting for the flurry of movement, the display of the super-soldier skills you both possess.

But it doesn't come.

The man standing in front of you looks tired. And sad. His face is bruised and cut, his uniform equally battered.

There's something about that uniform, the star, the belt, the English letter A on the forehead, it looks like something out of a bad television show-

_-a grainy black and white screen, girls in skirts and tight shirts, cheering fans, a man standing in the center of the stage, giving some sort of speech, Steve, you're such an idiot, I can't believe you let them do that to you, but at least you're not fighting, at least you're safe-_

You don't blink. He's still staring at you. He looks like he's given up.

_-the metal fist clenches, creaking, because there is anger in your throat, and in your chest, because there was a time when Steve was your-_

_-your-_

_-Steve was-_

_-Steve-_

Your mind is stuttering, flashing like a warning sign. Don't open this. Don't look. Don't look.

But you're tired of looking away from the thing that hurts, and it's throbbing in your mind, and you're keeping your face cold, but you're burning inside-

Your eyes haven't left his. They're blue, so blue, with a sadness in them that is pressing against your senses.

“People are gonna die, Buck,” he says. “I can't let that happen.”

_-like it's a choice he's made, like he's thought about the alternative, thought about going somewhere and not engaging, avoiding this fight, avoiding his death at your hands-_

“Please don't make me do this.”

 _-now he's pleading, as though_ you _can be persuaded, as though there is more inside of you than the mission-_

Your mouth is a thin line, jaw tight with this choking fury that he thinks he knows you, thinks he knows anything about you. He is nothing. He is a face on a list. He can give you nothing, because there's nothing left to give. It's all been taken. He's nobody.

_-You're not a nobody, you say furiously, watching Steve's face. He's still small in your mind, still fragile. A good punch would shatter him. You're somebody, you finish, and he looks at you, daring you to pity him, and you crush him up close, and you kiss him, and you mean it, because he is somebody to you, he's-_

No. There is only the mission. There is only the mission.

Right now there is only the mission.

You breathe in and out, eyes narrowing. You're armed and ready. Your target is in front of you.

There are no options. You know what to do. You know how to handle this.

The target-

 _-Steve,-_ your mind whispers, and you crush it down,

-is moving.

And it's happening.

Fighting him is familiar and strange because you're so evenly matched. You're two halves, surging, searching, him trying to get past you without hurting you, you trying to hurt him, kill him, stop him from doing whatever he came here to do. The helicarriers have to go up. You have orders.

One of your bullets grazes the target, who flinches, then delivers a shield thrust that sends you sprawling. Your guns clatter away, falling towards the distant glass floor.

Then you pull out your knife. It's one of your best weapons, next to your rifle, and through every mission, you've always managed to keep one in your arsenal.

_-There are flashes of knife-fights in your youth, of bleeding hands, and rusty razors dug out of the barber shop's trash. But the Winter Soldier didn't have a childhood.-_

You take a blow that pushes you backwards for a moment, long enough for the target to begin his work on the computer. A platform lowers to the keypad, but you ignore it. Your target is before you.

You engage again, knife pressed desperately against one blue-clad forearm, only to be kicked back. The target-

_-Steve, his name is Steve-_

No, no it's not, he doesn't have a name, he's nobody.

_-not nobody, you insist, you're my-_

-picks a data card out of a slot, tucking it into his belt.

You slam forward, metal arm ringing against that damn shield. The target uses the moment to press you back, against the railing. You swing forward, and you square off again, equally matched in height and weight.

But your missions are different. His involves being right here, next to this data bank. Yours can be taken care of elsewhere.

With a roar, you shove against him, taking you both over the railing and down towards the glass that makes up the bottom of the room. But you both land on one of the metal platforms below the maintenance deck, and you're at the advantage now.

This time you don't hesitate. You strike the new card out of his hand, knocking him back, sliding down and kicking him off the side, then leaping after him.

He's up and running before you, but he's forgotten his shield, and you fling it at him. It strikes him between the shoulder blades, knocking him to his knees.

You've picked up one of your fallen guns, and he ducks quickly behind his shield, but you don't let him stay there, letting him throw the damn thing and deflecting it. Your knife's back in your hand, and you're lunging down, aiming towards his right shoulder. He's got a guard up impressively fast, but you use the motor in your arm, and stab down, and he lets out an anguished yell as the metal sinks into the soft tissue where arm meets shoulder.

He shoves you away. You crawl towards the card, fingers closing over it, but he's on you in an instant, one broad palm lifting you by the neck and slamming you painfully into the glass.

_-it's still strange that he can do that, he used to be so much shorter than you, so much skinnier-_

He's got you by your good arm, hand jammed into your shoulder blade and you swipe at him with the inflexible metal of your left.

“Drop it,” he pants, and you ignore him. “Drop it!”

When you don't comply, he forces himself to press and twist, and the pain makes you shriek in agony, head thrown back. It's your left arm all over again. He's broken it, he's ruined it, now they'll take the other one as well-

Only he's not finished with you, and he pulls you back into a sleeper-hold that you know well because you taught it to him-

_-when he was much smaller and younger and prone to being bullied, and you couldn't stand to see him come away from fights with bruised ribs and split lips-_

No you didn't, you didn't teach him, you don't know him, he doesn't know you, he is nobody.

_-but he's not small anymore, and you're trapped with his power around you, and you can feel yourself beginning to black out-_

And for the first time in a long time, there is someone holding you when the darkness comes.

When you wake up this time, it's only been a few seconds. You're disoriented and pissed. He got the card. You roll over, clutching your broken arm to your side with a stifled groan. There's your gun.

He's on the first platform. You fire. It hits his leg. He goes down.

_-You could have killed him, but you didn't. You don't know why. You grit your teeth and make sure your gun hasn't jammed.-_

He risks a glance at you, watching you line up for another shot.

Then he gets back up, swinging himself up the ladder, and you fire again. It only grazes him this time, but it's enough to make him hesitate.

You just need a clear shot. But he's up to the top platform now, and you really need to make every bullet count. With your arm out of commission, reloading will be a bitch.

He's at the keypad now, fumbling at his belt, and-

Yes. There. You have it. A clear shot.

_-Don't do it, part of your mind begs and claws, you can't, you can't do it.-_

But you're the Winter Soldier. And you have orders.

You fire.

He crumples, breathing labored. He's staring at you. There's blood leaking out of the front of his uniform, so you know your slug went through him. Good. He'll be dead soon enough.

_-nonNO NO STEVE NO-_

You look around and slowly lower your arm. The mission's almost complete. You just need to get up to the platform and put one through his brain for good measure.

Maybe then the voice will stop shrieking his name and the violent ringing in your mind will end.

There's a jolt, as something moves outside the ship. You look back up at the platform, and you can hear him saying something in English that sounds like “Do it now!”

Then the world begins to buckle around you. There's heat, and something hits you, knocking you back onto one of the beams, and you scream as a weight crushes down onto your body. You're trapped, right arm hurt and useless, left arm pinned.

It's happening again. You're falling again, the whole helicarrier is falling, and you can feel it as it explodes around you.

_-But there's no snow this time, no trees, no train, no blood trail as a soldier drags you off to Zola's lab-_

_-And Steve's here this time too, and he's sure as hell not watching you fall again, which means he's jumping after you, but no, don't, Steve, don't, just let me fall-_

But the world is burning, and you hear the thud his body makes a few feet away as he jumps from the platform, hurt and bleeding, but _alive_.

You glare at him, breathing hard, pushing, trying to get out from under this goddamn girder, because you have a mission-

_-Steve, Steve-_

He crawls over to the girder, but is thrown back by a shock wave.

He was helping you. The target was trying to help you.

And you look at him, angrier and more confused than ever, and you try again, putting everything you've got into it. You don't want to die here. You have a mission to finish, a target to eliminate.

But despite his wounds, he's managed to get up again. He's lifting the girder, straining and yelling as he does, but it's enough, and you stare furiously at him as you heave yourself out with your good arm. The movement puts pressure on your break, and you let out a strangled cry as you roll yourself out from beneath that unbearable weight. You hear it slam down behind you.

Breathing hard, feeling the pain all over your body, you push yourself up a little, and your eyes meet his.

“You know me,” he gasps out, on his hands and knees.

His words feel like someone yanking on threads in your brain.

You tense and your good fist bunches. “No, I don't!” you scream, and the blow's force makes you stagger forward, and you want to hit him again, because there is nothing he can say that'll make this stop, or make you feel less like you're coming apart at the seams.

“Bucky,” he says, voice despairing, and you look at him, responding unconsciously.

“You've known me your whole life,” he continues, unperturbed.

_-Bucky, NO!-_

_-There was shouting. There was the train, Steve was staring after you, screaming as you fell, there was a sudden horrifying pain, your arm catching, and ripping, and gone, it's gone, there's a terrible heat mingling with the aching snow around you, and Steve's not there even though you promised his mother you'd take care of him, you promised yourself, you said you'd always be there-_

You look down for a moment, then backhand him with a snarl, hearing the glass squeal as his boots slam into the floor. You want to clutch at your head and cry because everything you know is telling you to end this, end it _now_ , but there's a part of you that's hammering on your skull and begging you not to kill this man.

“Your name,” he goes on, once he's found his footing again, “Is James Buchanan Barnes-”

_-No, no, there is no one. There is only the mission. There is no Bucky. There is no Steve. There were no summer nights lying drunk on the floor of your tiny apartment, laughing, hands brushing. There were no private touches and shy kisses and jokes made over a pharmacy counter on a lazy afternoon. There is nothing outside of the box and the mission and the dark and the hurt, the hurt, the metal arm with the red star that is more than your own name, oh god, Steve, my arm, look what they did to us, look what they made me do-_

“SHUT UP,” you yell, striking him again, knocking him flat onto the glass. You take a moment to wheeze, eyes watering. You can't keep this up. Your body has limits, even if they're further than a normal person's. And the helicarrier is crashing, you realize dimly, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Your mind is twisting and pulling and making you want to heave.

You stand up, and see that he's dragged himself up too. He's pulled off his mask, and those tired eyes are staring out of a face that you knew once upon a time.

You can see the familiar lines and shape and you remember what it was like to kiss that face-

_-and you remember your surprise that first time, when he had kissed you back, you'd never dreamed that he felt the same way-_

“I'm not gonna fight you,” he says at last, and then he drops the shield. You stare. It tumbles into the seething Potomac below, mixing with the debris already choking the river. They'll never find it.

“You're my friend,” he says simply, and that fills you with more anger than you knew you had left. You're angry because there's something in your mind that's telling you he's right, but that means that you're someone else, when all you know how to be is the Winter Soldier.

Sometimes you think they gave you that name because you're cold and precise when you're working. But you're neither of those things as you throw yourself at him with a growl, catching him by the waist and shoving the air from his lungs.

You pull back once, to position yourself better, and to make sure that he can see your face as you speak. “You're my mission,” you say, trying desperately to convince him and yourself, and draw back your fist.

Killing him will finish it. Killing him will make it all end, will bring back the quiet in your mind, will stop all of the _screaming_ -

Your fist meets his face six awful times, each taking more out of you, until you realize that he's not fighting back, just letting himself be hit-

_-and that pisses you off because he's Captain fucking America and he shouldn't just roll over and die like some fucking newbie-_

And you pull back one more time, half willing him to resist, but he's looking you in the eye now.

“Then finish it,” he says, sounding empty inside and out, and you're aware that the world is ending around you, but nothing else matters right now. “Because I'm with you to the end of the line.”

And there's a tearing in your chest, and suddenly there's more hole than bag in your mind, and your name is echoing with his scream.

 _-Because you've heard those words before,_ _you've_ _said those words before, you remember the day being cool and overcast, your hair shorter and slicked back, the suit uncomfortable but well-cut. And you said it to him, when you stood outside his old house with him after his mother's funeral, and he'd just looked at you, and you'd wanted to hold him so badly, but you couldn't because you thought he didn't feel the same way, so you asked if he would live with you, because you don't want him to be alone, and you don't know what you'll do without him-_

And Steve is lying under you now, bleeding. The hand on your bad arm is fisted in his uniform, and you can feel his heart pounding under your knuckles. And he's looking at you like he always has, like you're the most important person in the world, and you're _Bucky, Bucky, that's your name, you're James Buchanan Barnes, you were born March 10_ _th_ _, 1917, your best friend is Steve Rogers, and you fought in World War II, and they call you the Winter Soldier-_

Your eyes widen, and _it's been so long since you've seen him, so long, you thought he was dead for sure,_ but he isn't, he's alive, he's here, you're here. You see his exhausted face, and broken eyes, and the pleading that never really left his expression, _Buck, come back to me, please, please, I'm right here, don't do this, I found you, it's over, please, Bucky, Bucky, BUCKY-_

You want to run, but there's nowhere to go, because you can see him and he can see you and he's-

_-Steve-_

_-Target-_

_-no, he's Steve, STEVE-_

_-god, it's Steve, it's really him, this is real, and you've shot him, and one of the shots went_ through _him, and he's bleeding through his uniform, and he's looking at you like the past seventy years don't matter, but you did this to him._ Your fist is still raised, and you lower it, staring at him, because _it's Steve, and he's here, with you, he found you, you're Bucky, you ARE-_

And then he's being ripped away, too quickly, before you can register what's happening. And you frantically grip a beam with your good arm and have to watch as he falls, as the river swallows him the same way the mountains swallowed you all those years ago.

And he doesn't fight it. You went kicking and screaming, but he's silent, resigned, as metal and glass rains around you.

Then his body hits the water, and you're not thinking anymore, because he's in the water, and whatever you are, _whoever_ you are, _he's_ Steve, and you can't let Steve die.

There is only a moment to make the decision, and by then the decision is already made.

You judge the distance, then tuck your bad arm in with your good and leap.

The water hurts more than you thought it would-

_-but it's nothing compared to last time, and you remember now, there was a last time, and Steve had screamed for you, and the last thing you'd heard for some time was your name ringing through the valley-_

-but you can still move. Neither of your legs is broken, and your left arm is watertight and was designed to function under high-stress situations; it's probably the least broken thing about you, at this point.

You take a hasty gulp of air, scanning the water around you. You need to find him. The part of you that made you the Winter Soldier is arguing, telling you to get to safety first. You need to save yourself, get away from the danger that lies ahead.

But Steve is down there.

With some difficulty, you dive.

It's all darkness down here, but you're used to darkness. You need to find him. That's the most important thing. That's your mission right now.

 _But you don't give the orders,_ the Winter Soldier instinct mutters, _you follow them._

 _But it's not an order,_ you think back, praying that's justification enough to quiet your mind for a moment, long enough to save him. _It's a promise._

And there he is.

He's barely discernible against the muck, but there's a tiny trail of bubbles leaking out of his mouth and nose, along with a growing cloud of blood. He's grey in this light, the colors of his uniform fading into the depths of the river.

He's broken, so broken, you know, you did this to him. But you can't do anything for him underwater. Using your good arm, you reach down and hook your fingers through one of his battered shoulder straps.

You don't know if he's alive when you pull him out.

You don't know if you can bring yourself check.

There are warring instincts in your head, the instinct to flee, to protect your identity and your skills at all costs, and the instinct to see if you killed him, to see if Steve is-

You look down at him as you reach the shore.

If Steve is-

You don't want to think about it, because part of you still knows the mission, knows that Steve _should_ be dead, and another part of you is stuttering for you to _check, help, do something, because Steve is just lying there and you don't know if he's dead or alive, please, god, don't let him be dead, don't let me have killed him, no, please, Steve-_

You'll just make sure he's alive, you resolve. You can always kill him later if you have to.

_-but you can't, you won't, because Steve is-_

But just as you steel yourself to check, he spits up water and groans, turning over.

There are helicopters coming. You can hear them. And once again, the Winter Soldier instinct is strongest in your mind.

_-You need to run. They're coming for you.-_

_-But Steve-_

And then the Winter Soldier cuts in fiercer than ever, turning you, making you move.

_-If he's so fucking important to them, they'll take care of him. But there is nothing that you can do right now that they can't.-_

And with one last look – _he's lying very still in the sand, covered in the marks of your fight, three of your bullets still inside his body, you shot him, you shot Steve_ – you trudge away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this was highly therapeutic for me.  
> Now I can sort of think about Bucky and Steve without crying.


	2. Maybe Some Other Time

Your first impulse is to return to the base. But there are answers you need. Answers that Hydra isn't willing to give you. And with the way those ships went down, you're pretty sure Hydra is out of the picture anyways.

You feel lost. You've always had a handler to go back to.

 _-Not true,-_ part of you chimes in, _-you used to have friends, and a commanding officer, and Steve-_

You cling to that name. That's where you'll start.

There are abandoned cars littering the city after the day's devastation. You find a serviceable truck with the keys still in the ignition, looking through the cab's contents before going. There's a worn backpack and a jacket on the floor by the passenger's seat, and a baseball cap hanging on the dashboard. You put them on gingerly, minding your arm. You need to set that and bind it soon, before the healing starts. There's a wallet in the coffee-holder, and you count out almost two hundred dollars in cash. You stuff it into a pocket, realizing that you'll need to change clothes. You're covered in blood and dirt and still damp from the river, and of course you'll need to cover your arm. You should have thought of that earlier, but for now there's gas in the tank and the engine is running, and that means you can leave.

For now, though, you'll start with Steve.

 _-Steve,-_ your mind repeats frantically, and you grit your teeth. _-Steve, Steve-_

“Shut up,” you growl, your voice hoarse with disuse, shoving the car into gear, “just SHUT UP.”

\-----

This feels like the longest day of your life, nevermind the times you've gone two to three days without sleep. You rest your head against the steering wheel, trying to stave off the imminent breakdown.

They'd announced on the news this morning that Captain America was in critical condition, following the destruction of SHIELD's headquarters and the news that SHIELD had been infiltrated by a terrorist organization called Hydra.

He should be dead but he isn't and you were so glad he was alive, but there was a part of you that wanted him dead, the part of you that even after everything wanted to complete the mission-

You'd shuddered and punched a wall and longed for that fucking shield so you could hit something that wouldn't break, and then you'd decided to go see the memorial.

It was in the Smithsonian, and it was terrifying. It was your face staring out of the pictures. It was you laughing with Steve, an arm slung around his shoulders. You're Bucky.

_-James Buchanan Barnes, you say proudly, sticking out your chest, although there's not much of a chest to stick out yet; you're only ten after all. But you can call me Bucky-_

You clutch your head and groan.

There's too much to think about, not enough time. Not enough space for everything that's happened.

You're the Winter Soldier. You kill people. You are an asset to mankind.

There's an unfamiliar twist in your stomach. There is something in your head, a pressure, that makes you gasp as it pushes through.

_-I don't want to kill anybody, you confide to Steve in the early hours of the morning, but I've got to go. Your mom isn't happy to see you leave, but you're in your uniform, clean pressed and shiny, and there's nothing you can say when the truck rolls up and you climb on, and you didn't know that that was the last time you'd see her, or you'd have hugged her longer, told her you loved her more, but she died while you were overseas, and you have no idea what you're going to do when you get home, if you get home-_

You realize with a shock that you're crying,

Steve's voice is in your head, more familiar than your own right now. You grasp onto it, because it's the only thing that proves that both versions of you still exist. You're not imagining this, it's _real,_ he called your name on the bridge, he knew you, and you knew him-

 _You've killed people, Buck,_ he says quietly, and you can't stop shaking. _You've killed good people._

You lean forward, hoping that no one in this dimly lit parking garage can see you falling apart.

There is so much. You're- you're the Winter Soldier. And you're Bucky. But you killed them- killed people, good people. Not for money. Once, you did it for your country. But for a long time now, you've killed people because you were ordered to.

_-Orders.-_

_-Mission.-_

_-Target.-_

The words flash through your mind, making you groan, because there are parts of you that are still missing, still just out of reach, locked behind a wall that Hydra put inside you. You want to lash out, to hit something, anything, but only your metal arm is working right now, and this truck is too fragile.

You're Bucky. You know that now. It feels right in your mouth, had always felt right, but that had scared you by the bridge, because you'd known then that you'd gone a very, very long time without saying your own name. Once, in another time and another world, you were Sergeant Bucky Barnes.

But you're also the Winter Soldier. And you know how to survive. They can't take that from you, they can't take anything from you anymore.

And someday, maybe, if the time ever comes when there's less screaming in your head – you know how to find people.

_-Steve-_

_-Steve-_ whispers your voice in your head, but it's a voice from a different you, a better you, more whole, less patched together. And that voice is kind and its tone is bittersweet, and it's knocking a hole in everything you know.

Angrily, you wipe your face and crush the sobs billowing in your chest. There's no time for this. You need to be safe first. That's how you function. Set up an angle, and work from there.

You know how to do this.

You take a deep breath and glance at the Smithsonian, sitting just across the way. Your face on the screens had scared you more than you liked to admit. But it doesn't matter. It's over.

You can do this.

With shaking hands, you start the car again.

\-----

You find a place. You hunker down. You've bought enough supplies to last you a few weeks, so you spend those inside, trying to pick tangible pieces out of the mess you call a brain.

By the time you feel like it's safe to go out, like you can hold yourself together in public, your arm is halfway healed.

It's slow, at first. You go buy groceries, and you're watching everyone, every minute. No one's a threat. You're startled by children playing nearby, but you stay calm.

It takes weeks before you'll go out without a gun. But you always keep your knife in your back pocket. There are some parts of your old life you're not willing to surrender.

And it _is_ your old life now. You've decided. You won't go back. You won't let them open you up and play in your mind again.

You don't know what to do. You've got enough cash to live comfortably for a while. You've emptied an alias's accounts before they could be frozen, and you're in the process of setting up a new identity.

You're Bucky Barnes, and you're the Winter Soldier. You were born in 1917, and your best friend was Steve Rogers, aka Captain America.

There's always that option. To find him. To go to him. You know where he lives. It's only a few blocks away. You shot a target through his wall once. He watched you kill someone.

_-Nick Fury. His name was Nick Fury. You make yourself think about the names now, all of the names. And if you don't know their name, you think about their face.-_

But you begin to shake when you think about him.

When you think about Steve, and going back, and seeing the look on his face, like nothing's changed, like you're still Bucky, and he's still Steve, and nothing else matters. You start to gasp and wheeze and you realize that you're having trouble breathing, and you put your head between your knees and you wait it out.

You could stay here. Fix yourself. Get some kind of job. You've always been good at manual labor, and you've got the stamina to work long hours.

But you can't afford to think like someone normal. What you've done, what you know how to do – it doesn't just go away.

You worry that there will never be a way to make it right.

\-----

You're not looking for him, you swear. You're just out and about, scoping the neighborhood. You want to make sure that you're safe, that no one will try to get their hands on the Winter Soldier again. You're not going back to being handled like a tool, like an _asset_.

You've checked every vantage point of your apartment, and you're satisfied that no one can get a clear shot through your windows. The building is brick and concrete and steel, good protection against most things. It's not as safe as a bunker, but what you've sacrificed in safety you've gained in anonymity. You're taking the time now to do one last quick sweep of your surroundings, taking in the area as a whole in case you ever need to escape this way.

You've dropped down to street level, taking in the cafes and the grocery store and the laundromat down the block. The signs still make you look twice; you've had to get used to everything being in English. It's a quiet afternoon, and the few people around are mostly shoppers.

But then he's there, on a motorcycle, still a little rough, but at least this time he's not bleeding out on the bank of the Potomac. He's got jeans and a t-shirt on, and he's had stitches taken out of his face recently.

He looks older. Of course he's older, it's been seventy blurred years, but he feels older too, like he's hurt a lot and missed a lot.

He glances around, and you duck behind a building, feeling resistance against your left arm. You've had to get used to covering it, and sometimes the outer armor snags on fabric, like it's doing now. You need to make a new cuff to slip on under your clothes. You curse softly in Russian and gently pull the sweater so that it isn't catching, but by the time you look back, he's gone inside, his bike parked out front.

Checking the street, you realize that no one's watching. You cross quickly, stepping across the cream colored brick walkway and staring down at the bike.

It's something he always wanted when you were kids. A real motorcycle, something cool, something that you could ride and still feel the wind in your hair. This one's brand new, the paint job still shiny, but he rides like he's ridden one for years. Maybe he has.

You breathe deeply, smelling a faint mix of sweat and aftershave, and your eyes flutter a little, because it takes you back to a time when you two shared everything, when all you had was each other. You remember patting some onto his face after a shower, remember him laughing and telling you to knock it off, remember breaking a tiny bottle and having to explain to the landlord why the carpet smelled so much like you both. You remember, and it doesn't make you feel like you're breaking apart anymore.

Someone's watching you. You can feel it. You turn around, eyes scanning for a threat, but there's no one on the street. It's a quiet Thursday afternoon in Washington, sunlight filtering through the trees.

Then you look up.

He's standing in the window three floors up, staring at you. You can't hear him, but you see how white his face has gone, and you see his mouth moving in a word that might be “Bucky.”

There are a thousand things that could have given you away. Maybe it's the sling your arm is still in. Maybe it's your hair, tied back from your face and shoved under a baseball cap. Maybe it's the way your sweater presses against the metal of your arm.

But looking up, into his face, definitely did it. Because there's no hiding from Steve. He knows you too well to ever be fooled by some half-assed disguise.

No. No. You don't want him to see you, don't want him to look at you like that, like you're real, because you haven't been real for a long time, and you can't- he's not-

You turn and leave, before he has a chance to do anything else, say anything else, because if he does, it might break you all over again.

\-----

You don't go near his place again. And you start shopping a few blocks in the other direction. You don't want to run into him. You don't want to see him.

Seeing him was like being ripped open all over again. You can't even look at pictures of him in the newspaper (and you were so glad when you found out they still had those).

\-----

Most of the jumpiness has gone away after another week, but small sounds, like dishes clanking in a diner, still make you flinch.

You're not so good with cars, either, or the metallic screeching that comes with them. It reminds you too much of the traveling you did for every job, the times they couldn't transport you on ice. You walk whenever you can, and resolve to get a bicycle if you ever have somewhere you need to go.

You have good days and bad days. You spend the bad days in bed, rocking back and forth, reaching for guns that aren't there, grasping at a phantom ladder on the outside of a train, feeling the ghost of Steve's fingers across your neck.

Today is a good day. You got breakfast early this morning, and actually petted a little girl's dog when she offered. You think you can brave the cemetery today; Arlington, that is. You've looked up the bus route, and you're going to buy some flowers for their graves. The Howling Commandos were your second family for the time you were with them. And from what you've read about their lives after your “death,” they'd re-earned that respect and friendship a hundred times over. You wish you could say the same.

You're walking down a crosswalk, as relaxed as you ever get nowadays, and a noise makes you look up. A fourteen-wheeler is coming down the road, and you're frozen.

_-You're in Україна, it's 1976, there's a tank behind you, and in the distance a woman is screaming for her child. The air is frigid, it's early spring, and you've just shot a politically vital 10-year-old through the head from a mile away. Your rifle is still warm against your back as you climb onto the truck and await further orders.-_

You don't see the light change, or hear the honking and someone yell just before a car clips you and sends you tumbling into the street.

There's a hot blackness surrounding you, and there's something sticky on the side of your head, and your ribs ache. You haven't hurt this much in months, since the fight on the helicarrier, since he broke your arm-

His voice cuts through the noise, and he says “Bucky? Bucky? Can you hear me? No, listen, it's all right, he's my friend.” That was addressed to someone else, you realize, and you try to roll over. “No, Bucky, don't move, it's okay. Don't die on me,” he pleads, voice cracking a little, “You're supposed to be tough.”

 _I am tough,_ you want to reply, but talking requires too much effort just now.

And then there are strong hands hooking under your body, and your head is falling back, and all you can wonder is _why is he here?_

\-----

You dream about Coney Island, and winning the unbeatable ring toss, and Steve eating cotton candy and throwing it up after the rides. You dream about him falling asleep with his head on your shoulder on the way home.

\-----

When you wake up, time has passed. That's a familiar feeling, but this time it feels like hours, rather than years.

You're awake in an instant, the way you've been trained to be. You're on an unfamiliar couch, in an unfamiliar room, and there's a bandage on your head. Gingerly, you nudge it – it's sore to the touch, but not bleeding anymore. Thank you, superhealing.

No one's in the room, and there are no cameras. There's a window on the right, open an inch to let a breeze in. You relax a little. They've treated your wounds, and you're not restrained so they're probably a friendly. Not that you have friends.

Well. Not anymore.

“Bucky?”

You freeze, eyes darting to the kitchen door.

He's there, in sweatpants and a sleeveless grey shirt. He's barefoot, and he's carrying a glass of water and a paper bag. He's just like you remember him, big, filling the doorway with his bulk.

_-What the hell did they do you? you'd asked, and he hadn't been able to answer, either because he didn't know the details or because he wasn't allowed to say.-_

“I didn't want to let you sleep,” he rushes out, “Since they tell me you're not supposed to let people with head injuries sleep, but I couldn't wake you up, and I figured you didn't want me to take you to a hospital.”

He puts the water down on the coffee table in front of you, and opens the bag, pulling out something wrapped in tinfoil. “It's a chicken burrito,” he explains as he opens it, and that means nothing to you, but it smells good. “Mexican food,” he elaborates, seeing your look.

Then he carefully pulls up a chair and sits down. He's moving slowly, like he doesn't want to startle you. That's good. He knows how quickly you'll be gone if he gives you the chance.

But you don't know if you _can_ leave. Not when he's looking at you. Not when you can see the pink skin on his right shoulder where you jammed your knife. Not when you can hear him breathing, see the relief pouring off him in waves. You swallow. You didn't want to be near him, but you know that leaving again will crush you.

So you sit up, careful of your aching ribs and barely-healed arm, which didn't benefit from being tumbled across the street. And he watches you, with eyes that haven't really changed in seventy years, eyes that still follow you, and maybe it feels a little less awful to be this close to him.

You take the glass of water and swill out your mouth, tasting a hint of blood that means you've got a cut somewhere in your cheek. Then you open the food he brought and begin to eat, suddenly ravenous. It's good – better than what you've been tentatively ordering from unfamiliar menus for the past month and a half. You finish the whole thing, not looking at him, just letting it be enough that he's right there.

Then you ball up the foil and put it on the bag, and then you're meeting his eyes, and every plan you had about leaving is gone.

“Bucky,” he says, and it feels so good to hear him say your name, even after everything that's happened. It reminds you that it _is_ your name, that you're a person with a history, with a life. “Bucky, I just want you to talk to me.”

And then he doesn't say anything else, and you feel like bolting again, because you have too much to say for it to ever make sense. He's given you the floor. That's all you wanted, for a long time after you remembered, was to scream at him, tell him what they did, what you did, what they used you for – but now that he's here, patiently waiting, worry etched into his face, you can't find a single word to say to your best friend.

He doesn't seem too surprised by your silence, and passes a hand over his face. “Listen to me, Bucky.”

You could do that all day. You did, once upon a time.

“I'm here for you,” he says, and the gentleness in his voice and the look on his face is worse than anything else could ever be, because it's making you want to seize up, curl in on yourself, like when you were little and you found out your mom was sick. You don't want to look at him, but you've run for a long, long time, and there is no road left to run to.

“I'm sorry,” you choke out, and that's that. You've said it. But you'll never be able to say it enough. “I'm sorry,” you repeat, the words flowing faster now, “I'm so sorry, Steve, I'm sorry, sorry,” and you lean into your hands, feeling your face screw up, because you know now what you've done, and there will never be enough 'sorry' in the world to undo what they told you to do. What you did. You don't want to cry here, don't want to break down in front of him, but he's always been Steve, always been the person that you went to when you had nowhere else to go.

And there are calloused hands on your shoulders, and he's pulling you up, and he's hugging you, and your hands are fists against his back and you don't care, because he's crushed against you, body hard and comforting, it's real, _you're_ real, and you let yourself cry for the first time in a long time. Your breaths come in deep sticky sobs that only add to the feeling of falling apart. You're tired, so tired, and you've been gone for so long.

He rocks you like you're kids again, shushing you and rubbing your back, and you know he's crying too. He's always been better at hiding it.

\-----

He asks you not to leave, so you stay.

“I've lost you before, Buck,” he says, “I'm not going to lose you again.”

So you curl up with your back to him, feigning sleep so that maybe he'll get some rest. You can see the fatigue in his face; he's had more than his share of sleepless nights lately, and that settles onto your already endless pile of guilt. You let your breathing deepen, let your muscles relax, and finally you hear him start to settle.

When he thinks you're asleep, he hooks a loose arm over your side, and you remember the last time you were like this with him, in Germany, in that tiny private tent that was a luxury in an army camp. You'd pulled each other close for warmth, and for comfort, and you couldn't stop running your hands over the new him, the new body they'd given him.

You can smell him on this pillow, which is too-soft after so many years of hard cots, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and his arm is a soft weight against you, and you don't want to leave.

\-----

You dream about your first apartment together, about that first night. You dream about the silly grin on his face when you pull him up and dance him around the room, taking the part of the girl because you know he's sensitive about that.

You dream about your hand in his, and his hand on your waist, and the laugh in his eyes, and the way he had to look up at you.

You dream about having that celebratory beer, then coming home and arguing over something silly, and you remember leaning down hesitantly to kiss him. You remember him kissing you back, pulling you close by your suspenders, chuckling at the surprise in your face.

\-----

You wake up, and he's gone.

You turn over, willing yourself not to panic, but it's there all the same, catching in your chest. You pull your knees in to your chest, trying to breathe, feeling yourself begin to wheeze. You grip your metal arm hard, focusing on drawing breaths, telling yourself to stay calm, stay calm, just keep breathing, it'll be okay.

And then he's there, crossing to the bed, talking quietly. “Bucky? Bucky, it's okay, I'm right here, it's okay, it's okay,” and he puts his arms gently around you, and you pull him in close, and you breathe in his new aftershave, and your arms press behind his neck, and you want him with you, and he sits with you and pulls you against him, and waits until you're okay again. He lays you on your side, saying that it helps you breathe, and positions himself so he can face you.

It takes a few minutes, but your mind stops spinning out of control, and you eventually relax. You hope you haven't bruised him; sometimes your left arm uses more force than you mean to. But he seems fine, seems happy even, to see that you're still here, and he's running his fingers through your hair.

“Are you okay now?” he asks, and you realize that he's probably been through the same thing. You'd looked it up after the first time it happened, that time in the truck, and you'd read about PTSD, and the effects of war and displacement. Panic attacks were common.

You nod, not wanting to say anymore. He pulls you in again, and this time you're content to wind your arms under his, and settle your forehead against his chest, hearing his heart thumping behind super-soldier ribs.

“I made breakfast,” he says, and you almost laugh, because you've tasted Steve's cooking before. But you get up, instead, and follow him to the kitchen, and you eat, and it's actually pretty great. Obviously someone sat him down and explained the basics of food to him, or else cooking has changed pretty drastically in the past seventy years. The eggs are done just the way you like them, and there's jam and toast too. And there's hot, fresh coffee, served mercifully black, with none of that sugary cream stuff you've seen them put in at the cafe.

He looks glad to see you eat; he must have felt how skinny you were last night. You've been eating sporadically since you got your place, being too busy or too depressed to cook. You haven't been working out much either, and it's starting to show.

“I didn't think you'd be here,” he says, and you look at him.

“In DC,” he clarifies. “I would have thought you'd go back to Europe.”

You put down your mug. “I thought about it,” you admit. “There are people there who I could have gone to.”

He doesn't press you, and you're glad, because you need a moment to arrange your thoughts.

“I thought about killing them,” you say at last, and it's true, you've thought about it every night since you remembered your name. You've thought about watching the life flee their eyes, doing it up close and personal. There would be no sniper for them. There would only be your arm, the arm they put on you. It would be a fitting end. They are awful people. No one would miss them.

You take a deep breath. “But I don't want to be a killer anymore,” you say, voice perilously close to breaking, and you're thinking about all those people, and you blink, and he catches your eye.

You can see his face now, the grief mixed with sympathy. He knows what they did, or some of it; you can see it in his expression. He knows what they made you do. And there's no judgment there, even if you think there should be. Steve only ever sees the best of people.

You groan and rub your week-old beard with your right hand, taking another sip of coffee. It makes you feel more awake, more present. “But that doesn't mean I don't want them to pay,” you continue, some of the Winter Soldier creeping into your voice. “If I give you a list of names, I expect those people to go to jail.” At the very least, you add silently.

Steve nods. “I'll take them down myself, if you want,” he offers, and your blood runs cold.

“No,” you say, and he's looking at you again. “I don't want- you can't-” you can't force the words out, and you rub your fingers across the glove on your left hand.

Steve reaches across the narrow table and covers your metal hand with his own. “Okay,” he says, and you're so grateful that he's Steve, because he is. No matter what year it is, or how different you both look, he's always Steve, and Steve is good, the best man you know.

“Come on,” he says, standing up. “Let's get you some clean clothes.”

You stiffen – does he mean outside? Is he leaving? - but he's leading you back to the bedroom, and he's pulling open some drawers.

“Try these,” he advises. “They're really comfortable.” He throws a pair of black slacks and a t-shirt onto the bed, and you start untying your shoes. They're running shoes you bought when you first decided to stay, made for durability and hard use, and they fit better than the boots you were used to. You'd slipped them back on this morning out of habit, even though you hadn't intended to go outside.

As you're fighting with the tiny, slippery laces, you notice that Steve's changing too. He's pulling off his sweats and changing them for khakis, and he's got out a long-sleeved shirt with an Iron Man logo on the front.

Seeing your look, he says, “Stark sends me a new one every month or so. I have no idea why.” He shakes his head, like having Iron Man personally send you clothing isn't odd.

Then he pulls his shirt over his head, and you can finally see the bullet scars, and the sight makes you feel like throwing up. You can see the almost-exit wound of the one you put through his back and stomach. It's a reddish mark just below his ribs, one mark among many. He has scars, more scars than you thought there'd be, though his healing has faded most of them.

And, of course, there's the puckered knife wound in his shoulder. Before he can put on the new shirt, you put a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” you say, your thumb on the edge of the scar. You'd always used a serrated blade. Now you wished you'd used one less damaging. Even if he could heal, it must have hurt like hell. He'd taken that to the shoulder, one to the leg, and another bullet through the chest, then had lifted a girder off you, and taken some serious slugs from your left arm. He really was one heck of a super-soldier.

You wish none of that had ever happened. You lean down, and press your lips against the scar, praying it'll go away if you hope hard enough. Hoping those few frantic days will erase. Hoping that every bullet, every blade you put into him would disappear, along with the marks that proved it.

He clears his throat, and you move away. “Sorry,” you repeat, though you can see he doesn't need an apology. He's almost an inch taller than you now, but he always seemed so small. You realize that your hand is still on his arm, and pull it away.

But he catches your hand. “Buck,” he says, and you look at his face, and there's a warmth there that you know so well, that you finally remember. You haven't felt like this in so long, haven't even thought about it in all the time you were the Winter Soldier. You hadn't felt anything they hadn't programmed you to feel.

But you remember this. He's in a different body, but it's still Steve. Looking at him now still gives you that rush, that feeling like maybe no one has to know that you're doing this with your best friend. No one has to know that you're never getting married to that girl down the street, no one has to know what you two say and do with each other in the middle of night.

His eyes meet yours. He's always said your eyes are blue and grey, like a storm, and looking at his now, you can see that they still look like the sky.

His hand is shaking, when it finally rests against your cheek, and you blink slowly, feeling warm all over, and you remember how it felt to kiss him for the first time.

“Steve,” you say, looking back at him, and your hands are at his chest, and you're pushing him back against the wall, and you're kissing him, you're kissing him and he's kissing you back, and you feel like crying some more, but you don't want to ruin this, and his mouth against yours is hot and sharp and right, and it's been seventy years too long.

\-----

Afterward, you curl up with him, and you're glad he's so warm, because the blanket fell off the bed at some point, and you don't want to go find it. You settle for the crisp sheets and and his solid weight pressed against your side.

He kisses your face gently, so carefully, tickling under your jaw until you laugh and swat him with a pillow, and he's smiling at you, dazed and deliriously happy, and he leans down over you and kisses you again, and you kiss him back, and you feel more okay than you can remember ever being.

\-----

You dream about kissing him, and then you wake up and kiss him, and he wakes up and smiles at you sleepily in the darkness, and suddenly you're not alone anymore.

\-----

It takes a few days before you're comfortable going out alone – the need to be with Steve, to protect him, is constantly at the forefront of your mind – but you need to go get some of your clothes and he needs to go shopping.

So you put on your hat, and pull it down over your eyes, and Steve kisses you one last time before letting you go back to your place.

You're strangely glad that SHIELD is gone. It means that Steve doesn't have to go on dangerous missions anymore, doesn't need to follow anyone's orders.

You pack a bag at your house, everything you might need. Steve's made it abundantly clear that he expects you to pretty much move in with him, and for once you're glad to let him take charge.

After a moment's hesitation, you decide not to bring your guns. You have the knife with you, but that's more habit than anything. You lock the guns into their cases and stow them behind the panel in the closet. Then you lock up, and you don't know when you'll be back. You've paid six months of rent, so no one will bother your things, but it still feels strange to turn off the lights and leave stuff behind.

Checking your watch, you see that you've hardly been gone fifteen minutes. He's probably still at the grocery store, and he has the key to his place. You could break in, but you know there's no need; you can just meet him at the grocery store.

It's strange to see him like this, standing in the produce aisle with a look of consternation as he tries to decide between two types of tomatoes. The wrinkle in his brow makes you smile.

He notices you as you walk up, sees the bag over your shoulder, and his face lights up.

He's excited, you realize. He's glad you're here. Somewhere inside you, you knew he always was, but it was nice to be reminded.

To your astonishment, he takes your hand as you walk towards his apartment. You look around, fearing what you'll see on the faces of passerby, but no one even gives you a second glance. That, more than anything, shakes you. You've always known that time was passing while you slept in the box, but this feels unreal.

He squeezes your hand lightly. “Natasha says that no one cares anymore, Buck,” and you stare at him. “And gay marriage is legal in more than half the states, plus DC,” he continues, and you stop, and you make him look at you, because seventy years ago people hardly spoke about it even in private, and this feels like a dream more than anything.

“It's okay, then?” you ask, voice a little raw with shock.

He just smiles, and leans over and kisses you on the lips.

No one shouts. No one flinches away, or makes horrified comments. No one cares.

You kiss him back, feeling dazed, and he leads you back to his apartment.

\-----

Eventually you bring over the rest of your stuff, including your guns.

You need to clean the rifle, you realize; it's been stuffed away since the moment you got the place.

You lay it out on the kitchen table, and Steve watches as you field strip it, an odd look on his face.

“What's wrong?” you ask, moving the barrel over an inch so it isn't touching the scope.

“It's nothing,” he says, taking a seat and leaning his chin on one hand. “The last time I watched you do this, we were in Germany.”

You carefully rub down the suppressor. “I remember.” That's a little bit of lie. You don't remember cleaning the gun, but you do remember Steve pressing you up against the wall afterwards, with your hands still dirty. That was the first time you'd done that after he'd gotten the serum.

You look down, feeling warm. You decided to bring the guns over because they're part of you, and Steve wants all of you here. He's told you every day, in the bluntest terms, because he doesn't want you to misunderstand anything.

But cleaning the rifle also makes you feel like a soldier again. Less like the Winter Soldier, more like Sergeant Barnes.

It's been weeks since you had the flashes, and the headaches. You talk to Steve about it, let him help you walk through your broken memories, and it doesn't hurt so much, the doors in your mind sliding slowly open instead of slamming shut.

“I'm glad you're not hurting anymore,” he says, and you grin at him, because you _are_ still hurting a little, but it's nothing compared to before.

You feel bad, sleeping in his bed, eating his food, taking up his time – he's Captain America, doesn't he have somewhere better to be? – but Steve shakes his head, and says that after what happened with Hydra, he's taken a leave of absence from all superheroing, and besides, there's nowhere he'd rather be than with you.

\-----

You're both on the couch, Steve's pants are on the floor, and you're liking where this is going, so of course Steve's phone starts ringing.

You stare wrathfully at that tiny piece of metal and glass. _Just_ when it was getting good. You're tempted to break it in half with your left hand, but you know Steve wouldn't like it.

And Steve is Steve, and he treats every call like an emergency, so he looks carefully for the right button and answers it.

“Hello? Oh, it's you.” His brow furrows, and you chuckle at his eye roll. “Yes, _of course_ it's a bad time, Stark, otherwise you wouldn't be calling. Now what exactly do you want?”

He listens for a moment, tapping his foot, unaware of how great he looks in those boxer-briefs. You really have to thank current fashions for showing off Steve's best feature.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, saying “uh huh,” every once in a while as Stark blathers on about something.

If you don't do something, he'll be stuck on the phone all night, listening to some rich idiot talk his ear off about some new technologically advanced shield to replace the one he left in the Potomac.

You sit forward with a hint of a grin, unbuttoning your shirt. It's a little tricky with how slippery the fingers on your left hand can be, but you get it done. Then you lean back, unbuckling your pants, watching Steve, whose attention is suddenly all on you.

He's not even bothering to use half-hearted affirmatives now, just watching you, watching you pull down those annoying sleeves, watching you slide your pants over your hips, watching you arch off the couch to get the belt off-

“I'll call you back,” he says in a strangled sort of voice, and shuts off the phone, and you laugh, and he pushes you back against the couch and kisses you, and his hands are on your waist, tucking beneath the waistline of your boxers, and you're-

“Ah, I-,” you say, and let out a fluttering sort of sound that he kisses back into your mouth.

He never seems to mind the cold of your arm, and he presses his lips against it now, before returning to your mouth, and your chest, and anywhere else he can touch. You wind your fingers through his hair, feeling the fuzz at the nape of his neck and the tiny bump of an old scar, and you press yourself against him as you finish, and he's happy to stay like that for a bit, but you want to kiss him now, and he eagerly kisses you back.

\-----

“There's something I need to tell you,” Steve says to you in one of the early hours of the morning, and your heartbeat picks up, drumming against the inside of your chest. You shouldn't be this worried, but according to the book you read on panic disorder, it's an unconscious stress reaction.

“What is it?” you ask, because you have to know. His arm is under your cheek; you've started shaving again, and you got a haircut yesterday.

“I'm not technically supposed to tell you, but I think it's important.” His eyes are only inches from yours. “There's a name on your list that shouldn't be on it.”

Your gaze flashes to his face. “What do you mean?” He's known about the list for a while now, but never said anything other than to offer his ear and his shoulder. He knows you're trying to deal with it.

“Nick Fury,” he says, and you lurch to hear that name. “You didn't kill him.”

There's a ringing in your ears. “I shot him,” you say, tasting bile. “I shot him through that wall. He died.”

“He died,” Steve concedes, though there's something in his eyes beyond that, “But your bullet didn't kill him.” There is only absolute truth in his face now, and you feel like crying.

“Thanks,” you croak, and pull him closer. “Thanks, Steve.”

“I love you,” he says by way of reply, and you kiss him hard, because after everything he's still working to give you back a life you hadn't remembered having.

\-----

You like being able to go out with Steve, to see movies and shop for groceries, and on a few occasions go to the old gym Steve goes to. He's the only one who can match you blow for blow in a spar besides Black Widow, but she's rarely in DC nowadays. Whenever she is, she keeps you on your toes, using her seamless blend of fighting styles to put you wherever she wants in the sparring ring. You're getting better under her tutelage, but it's taken a lot of nasty bruises from her fists and feet and sharp elbows. You don't begrudge her those – you did shoot her through the hip once, to kill a target. According to Steve, she's still sore about the scar, not so much about the act itself.

It's Natasha, you learn, who's been working her way down the list of your former handlers. Apparently she volunteered.

Meeting former targets is strange, so strange. Knowing that you once thought of them as targets is even stranger.

After everything, you finally got around to formally meeting and apologizing to Sam, but like the rest of Steve's weirdly accepting gang of superheroes, he hadn't held anything against you. What he _had_ said was that he worked down at the local VA office, and that you were welcome to come to some of the group sessions.

It's a nice night, and you've just watched an old western and had dinner, when you finally make your decision. “I think I'm going to call Sam,” you say, staring out the window sightlessly.

Steve's working on a laptop that was a mocking gift from Stark, trying to figure out how to search for Russian recipes in English. He looks up at your words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I'm going to take him up on that offer.”

You've pushed it out of your head for weeks, thinking it was just something he'd said to be nice, but then Nat told you in passing that she'd started going to therapy, and that it felt good, and suddenly it didn't seem so overwhelmingly terrifying anymore.

It was a _very_ different time, as you were coming to understand. Mental illnesses and post-traumatic disorders didn't hold the same stigmas, and were readily treatable. Sometimes Steve went down to the VA to give talks about his problems adjusting to civilian life.

There are so many people offering to help you that sometimes you wonder if you dreamed those years as the Winter Soldier.

But you didn't. And you know that you can't live like this forever, like normal people with normal problems. There is blood on your hands. And no number of “I'm sorry”s can wipe that blood away, but you know that you need to try, you need to do something, anything, to make the world a little bit of a better place.

Whatever guilt issues you have, you know deep down that you can help people, and it's finally time to start paying some of what you owe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always nice to write some Stucky fluff.
> 
> Translation note: Україна is Ukraine.


	3. I'm Just Trying To Get My Feet Back

It's 1943, and you're Bucky, and that's all you know, all you're allowed to say, over and over. There's someone familiar leaning over you, a short man with a Swiss accent and a terrifying greed in his eyes, and you scream, and you scream, and you stop screaming when your throat is raw because there's blackness and walls that are pressing in on you, holding you in, always in, and one of the hands isn't yours and you stop, stop, s t o p andthenthere'sonlydark-

You wake up shuddering and gasping and reaching for Steve, trying to explain with words that won't come, trying to shake yourself out of this nightmare.

“I'm here,” he says, already awake. “I'm here. Right here. I'm right here.” He slowly puts his hands where you can reach them if you want to, knowing that you don't always like to be touched.

Right now you need that. You need his ridiculous super-soldier warmth, and you need the gentleness in his hands. You also need the bump on his right index finger from holding a pencil too often, because that's Steve. Under all the armor and the patriotism, that's Steve, drawing until his hands ache, waking up in the middle of the night with an idea and having to scramble to write it down. That's Steve.

You press your face into his hands, and you realize your lips are chapped and your cheeks are wet. You were probably talking in your sleep, and you pray that Steve didn't hear a thing.

Slowly, telegraphing his movement, Steve withdraws a hand to stroke your cheek. “Hey, Bucky,” he whispers. “Are you okay?”

You shudder, and he moves the hand away. But that's worse, the emptiness is worse, and you quickly clutch at his hand with a choked noise in your throat, because you're not sure you want anyone touching you but you need Steve right here _now_.

“I'm not really the best judge of 'okay,'” you reply after a minute, trying and failing to crack a smile. Shakily, you haul yourself into a sitting position, resting against the headboard. The smoothness of the wood feels nice against your neck, and you sigh.

Steve has rolled onto his side, and is looking at you, waiting patiently. You want to tell him that right now he looks _exactly_ like a golden retriever, but if you start with the jokes, you'll never be able to say what you want to say.

“I'm kinda worried I won't be okay, Steve. Not ever.” You push your hair back with a sigh, pulling it into a ponytail with one of the rubber bands around your wrist. Steve always tells you to take them off at night, that it'll cut off the circulation or something like that, but you always forget.

The light catches on your left arm as you move.

You lower it slowly. You stare at your hands. One is silver, one is a dull, fleshy pink. But it doesn't really matter anymore which one is metal. After all, your right hand is your trigger hand when you're using your rifle. It's been seventy years since they put the metal in your body, but they've been putting the metal in your mind every day you've been awake since 1943.

“I know Natasha said it gets a little easier, that time helps, but I don't feel right.” You know your voice is overtired and slurring a little, but you can't seem to care. “I've killed a lot of people, Steve, and that's never gonna be okay with me. I need you to get that.”

There are parts of you that are still falling, always falling. Part of you is still back there on that endless train ride, on that endless drop, hands reaching for Steve, always for Steve.

“It was Hydra that killed those people,” he says softly. “I hear what you're saying, but it was Hydra. It wasn't you.”

You look back at him now, all wide blue eyes and square jaw and determination. He's a sight to make the nearest patriot swoon, but all you're seeing is short, skinny Steve, a hundred pounds soaking wet but absolutely brimming with faith in people. You miss that sometimes. You're so proud of what he's made for himself here, in this strange time with these strange people, but you miss who he used to be. Who you both used to be.

“I've done a lot of awful shit, Steve.”

“So have I,” he interjects, unable to help himself.

You throw him a look. “But you were a soldier. I wasn't, not really. I... I wasn't even really a person,” you say quietly, swallowing hard, not daring to stop in case you can't start again. “I was just a blank _thing._ Something that walked and talked but wasn't really alive.”

Steve's quiet next to you, shifting to get comfortable, but still listening.

You stretch the stiffness from your back and lie back down beside him, staring at the ceiling. You make no move to touch him now, though you wish you could. For now you just need a few minutes to focus on what's inside your head.

“It was like I was in a nightmare for seventy years,” you say, breathing slowly, in through your nose and out through your mouth. The breathing helps stop you from panicking, and you've felt the lung-freezing terror lurking since the moment you woke up. “None of it was happening to me. I wasn't me. I was the Winter Soldier.”

You catch the hint of confusion in Steve's eyes and shrug. “I kind of... moved away from it all. It wasn't a decision. I just couldn't deal with what was happening. So I stopped being there. _I_ wasn't following the orders, the Winter Soldier was. As long as it wasn't me, as long as it wasn't really happening, I could function. I could complete the mission.” Your jaw tenses on the last word; you've gone so long without saying it, and you'd be happy to never say it again.

You steeple your fingers together, then think better of it; sometimes you clench your left hand unconsciously, the neural link responding to stress, and you don't want to injure yourself.

“Then they gave me to Pierce,” you begin finally. “And he wanted to change my... my programming.”

You force yourself to say it, to let it grind out from between your lips. In that shitty apartment, in your first weeks as you instead of the Winter Soldier, you'd spent a lot of time thinking about it. So you know by now that thinking about it gives you the sweats, and makes you curl up hard and lash out at anything, so you're careful now to breathe and relax as best you can. Whatever kind of way they re-engineered your brain after the war, they sure as hell didn't put anything in there to handle large doses of anxiety or panic.

“When the Russians had me, when Zola had me, I was a piece of meat to move around.” You keep trying to say what you mean, but it never comes out perfectly – it's always just a little bit off, a little bit less than you want to say. But right now you need to tell the truth, even if it's only true for the time it takes to say it. You need to say something that's about you, whoever you are on the inside.

“But Pierce... he wanted me to be more. He wanted me to do things because I thought they were _right_.” Your mouth feels suddenly bone dry. “He got some sick fucking pleasure out of waking me up to kill people, and he wanted me to _want_ to do it. My other handlers, they didn't give a shit about what I wanted. I didn't want anything. I was just the asset.”

You glance at Steve, see the carefully hidden pain in his face, and you almost want to smile at how puppylike he looks, but you can't. You have to get this all out, otherwise you'll never say it to anyone. You'll lock yourself back up, and it'll start to break you all over again. You never knew how fragile you were on the inside until now.

“But he wanted more out of me,” you say. “He didn't want unthinking obedience. He didn't want a machine. So he started keeping me out just a little longer than usual. Not much, just enough that I would get faint bits of myself back.” That had been the worst part of it all. Not the torture, not the killing, not the rubber between your teeth while they carefully cut and stitched your mind with electricity and drugs, not the bone-deep cold of the box. The worst part was not knowing what had been taken, but feeling it there, feeling it in your fingertips and behind your eyes and in the tears that you sometimes woke with.

You remember the first time it happened. You'd been awake for four days, one more than protocol generally allowed. You were on a rooftop in France in '89, and you'd noticed an ice cream shop. You'd paused, unsure for a moment, flooded by the memory of eating strawberry ice cream on a hot day with someone you loved.

Then the person behind you, one of Pierce's men, had hissed a command code in Russian, and you'd kept moving automatically, eyes wide under your goggles. You were glad just then that no one knew your mouth was watering unconsciously behind the mask. It haunted you for the rest of the mission, and afterwards you were glad to go back into the ice, because maybe the hard, sweet taste would leave your mouth and your mind.

You sigh, finally letting yourself hold Steve's hand. He immediately moves a little closer to you, and you're glad for the warmth.

“He told me that the work I was doing was for the good of humanity.” Your mouth twists; you hate echoing anything out of that psychotic fuck's mouth, but Steve needs to know. “And it was enough. I did the work better than ever. I finally let myself be the Winter Soldier the way he wanted. Because as long as someone was telling me that I was doing the right thing, I didn't care what it was.”

You hate this feeling, this hot sickness that's filling your chest. You hate knowing everything you've done and all the people you've murdered and all the times you wished you could just step off a roof and let it be over, without knowing that your handlers would scrape you up and sew you back together and then _hurt_ you because you are property, and you don't get to damage yourself. Sometimes, when this feeling hits your lungs and your stomach and your heart, you almost miss the bag in your mind, but you force that thought down, because you found Steve, and that bag took him away, and you are never _ever_ letting anyone do that again.

You tense at the thought, and all of a sudden your stomach rolls, and you lean over the side of the bed, grabbing the trash can, and throw up last night's pizza. Steve's next to you in an instant, rubbing a broad hand over your back, handing you a tissue to wipe your mouth with.

“I'm gonna go get you some water,” he says, and you nod. While he's in the kitchen, you cross to the bathroom and swill out your mouth, feeling the stomach acid burn your throat.

You gratefully sip the water he brings you, your head swimming. There's the beginning of a nasty headache pounding in your temple, but you ignore it for now. You take the half cup of water left and pour it onto the jade plant Steve has growing by the window.

“You should rest a little,” Steve says, taking a seat on the bed. “It's not good to get yourself too worked up too quickly.”

You roll your eyes. “What, afraid I'm gonna snap and kill your houseplants?” you ask waspishly.

Steve raises an eyebrow and puts on his best Captain America face. “Of course. I'm here to protect the houseplants of America,” he says in an even tone, and you choke out a laugh.

That makes him smile, but the smile fades a little as he looks at the plants again. “The only thing they're likely to die of is over-pampering. Sam said to find a hobby, and I somehow got wrangled into taking care of these.” He shook his head. “The amount of money I've spent on soil and pots... before the war, I could have gone to a year of art classes for that.”

“Before the war” is how they both talk about it now. They don't want to say “before the ice” or “before Hydra” or “when we were dead.”

“Okay, grandpa,” you say, a hint of a smile on your face. “It's not like you don't have the money to go back to school now.”

He looks shocked and stricken at that, and you realize with a jolt he hasn't thought about it. Even though it was what he'd loved to do from the minute he picked up a pencil, he genuinely hadn't thought about going back to school or ever drawing professionally.

“You always were kinda slow,” you say affectionately, watching him closely. “Even nowadays, when you've got nothing to prove to anybody, you're always so wrapped up in what people expect of you.”

You wave a hand at the simple but expensive bed you're both lying on. “You've got the money and the time now, Steve. Bet universities would line up to have Captain America going there. No more of you working at the pharmacy just to pay for your asthma medicine, or trying to sell your work to the penny newspaper place down the street.”

“I liked that newspaper,” he says defensively. “The guy who worked there gave me oranges off his tree. And he never short-changed me.”

“That's just 'cos he was sweet on you, Steve,” you say with a smile. “Those oranges dried up pretty quick once he figured out you were making time with me.”

Steve blushed so darkly you could see it even in the dim light of the window. “Yeah, well, you were always sweeter.”

You feel warm at that, warm all over, warm like you haven't been since before the war, and you lean forward and kiss him, and he makes a soft noise in his throat that you love. You push him back, arms braced next to his head, and you kiss him.

He breaks the kiss after a moment, and you pull back. “Something wrong?”

He shakes his head, lips red and swollen. “I just, uh, wanted to know if you wanted to keep, you know, talking. About what you wanted to talk about.”

You almost want to smack him in the arm, because nothing ruins the moment quicker than well-intentioned Steve fucking Rogers, but you lean back with a sigh.

Looking down at him now, looking at him spread out under you, you're glad he crashed that plane. You're glad he got ripped out of the war just like you. He would have been an old man by now. He might have been dead.

If he wasn't here, now, you wouldn't be here either. Your body would be back in the box, waiting for orders, waiting for Pierce, waiting for a new black bag and a new target.

And you'd be under it all somewhere, somewhere deep inside the winter.

Steve's always looking at you like he's still afraid you're gonna disappear if he looks away, and you don't begrudge him that, because sometimes you're afraid too. But as long as Steve's here, it's okay. It's okay. You're okay. You can say what happened, because Steve never judges anybody for shit that's happened to them.

“I think he broke me,” you say, and your voice cracks, and you're crying. “I think he broke whatever was keeping me asleep while the Winter Soldier took over, and now it's all mixed up inside-”

You roll off him, gulping down some air and grabbing a tissue for your streaming nose.

Steve moves to gather you in his arms, and you lean into his chest, hearing his heart thudding behind ribs that are probably stronger than concrete or some shit like that. Steve's always careful about what you need, and you're so glad, so glad, every minute of every day in this terrifying new world, that he's here with you.

“It's okay,” he whispers again, his voice soft. “It's okay.” He doesn't try to shush you, just takes in some of the sobs jumping in your chest.

One of Steve's fingers draws a soothing whirl into your shoulder, and you feel the roughness of his knuckles. Those calluses are from being Captain America. The one between his thumb and forefinger is from catching the shield over and over again, the ridge in his glove pressing against the skin.

You wipe your eyes again and sigh, breathing in the faint smell of oil and soap and aftershave. Steve smells like his bike and the gym and the barbecue place down the street. He smells like a battle-smoked forest and hard earth under aching feet and winter nights spent huddled around a tiny stove. He smells like wind and broken glass and the dirty churning water of the Potomac.

When you finally drift to sleep in the loose circle of his warmth, you wonder if you still smell like ice.

\-----

It's 1943, and you wake up slowly, syrupy, and the Scientist is there, the man you associate with blood and needles and the tightness in your lungs and the pain-

But he's not hurting you. Not right now. You're not on a medical table, just strapped to a chair. That's good.

The Scientist tells you about a man, a man in a plane. He tells you the man did something to Hydra that means you'll be going back to sleep for a while. The Scientist sounds almost regretful, and he tucks your hair behind your ear with a loving stroke, and you shudder, unconsciously leaning into his hand, the first comforting touch you've had in a long time. He laughs and withdraws the hand, and says that you're going to be prepped for something called “long-term cryo-stasis.”

You don't know what that means, but for a moment, you hate the man in the plane with a bubbling, rushing hatred because he's given them a reason to put you back to sleep-

Your shoulders tense, but you do not move from your seat. You know what happens when you move without permission.

No, it's not only that. You have not been _ordered_ to do anything.

Orders are primary. They've taught you about that. About the importance of orders and obedience. You will do nothing unless ordered to. There is pain when you do otherwise. You don't want that again.

You used to be someone. You can vaguely remember it, behind the pain, and the needles, and the weight of your new left arm that makes it difficult to breathe sometimes, but the memory is slippery.

You used to be a soldier. You think you know that. You can load and clean and field strip weapons, so you must have had something to do with the military. A military. You can't remember which.

But you're speaking English, you think. So you were probably American or British or something like that.

 _Bucky,_ whispers something in the back of your mind. _Bucky. My name is Bucky. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes._

Your gaze never moves, but you can feel the wetness in the corners of your eyes, and you're suddenly hyperaware of how long it's been since you shaved. You raise your right hand hesitantly to your face, feeling the scruff. It's been months, at least. You glance at the Scientist, but he hasn't noticed your moment, and you're glad, so glad, because you don't want him to hurt you again. You were unconscious for what they did to your arm, but the water pain was worse because of the fear, because you've always been afraid of drowning, and they kept pouring it into your nose and your mouth and your lungs-

You wipe the tears away and sit back, and try, try to remember before they put you under again. You don't want to lose this. You don't want to lose you. Not again. Not ever.

 _James Buchanan Barnes,_ you think, and you think about the time in the forests, with the Howling Commandos, and you remember- you remember him, the Scientist, Zola, that's his name, standing over you, and you remember a voice that's more familiar than your own, saying ' _Bucky_?' And the voice had ached with fear and worry, and you had turned to him, and you couldn't believe he was really there, but he was.

' _Steve_ ,' you had replied, voice broken with pain, and he'd taken you out of that hellhole, had taken you back to camp, had poured you a drink and held you close with his too-warm, too-big body.

Of course you're an American, why would you be anything else? Bucky Barnes, Brooklyn born and bred, and you used to be real quick with the guys and gals, but nowadays you've only got eyes for Steve-

Laughter breaks through your memory, and your bloodshot eyes snap up, but you don't move. You haven't been ordered to move.

Zola is speaking to one of his assistants as they pack up the lab, and you listen this time. “That idiot crashed into the Arctic with the Cube – can you believe that? What a waste. The Cube, of course, not some American moron in a stupid costume.” Then he laughs again.

You stare straight ahead, breathing shallow, fists tightening, because that can't be true, because there's only one American moron in a stupid costume that would do that.

_-STEVESTEVEstevenoNOstevenoplease-_

He would do it. You know he would do it. If he'd cross enemy lines in the middle of the night to rescue a couple hundred guys from an enemy camp, he'd sure as hell crash a plane into the ocean to drown the Cube.

_-Steve, Stevie, Steve no why did you, why would you, but you did, because you would, you fucking idiot, you always wanted to sacrifice yourself for your country and you've fucking done it-_

You begin to shake because Steve is dead, Steve is _dead_ , his new body is somewhere up north under a hundred feet of ice water, and Steve is dead. For all your fears about drowning, about the breath being forced from you bit by bit, you never thought it would happen to Steve.

When they put the needle in your right arm, the needle that makes you feel like molasses, you don't resist, don't even flinch, because at least when you're asleep they don't hurt you. They like you to be awake for that part.

But this is different. You force your heavy eyelids open, staring at the Scientist's men as they lift you into a glass box that looks horribly like a coffin.

You try to move, but all you can manage is a weak struggle that the men stifle with well-trained motions. They press you into the hard back of the case and put something between your teeth that tastes like leather, and then they're closing the lid.

You press limp hands against the glass, pushing, but whatever they put in your arm has taken its toll, and your eyes are fighting to slide shut.

 _Steve, Steve,_ you want to say, but it's too late, he's dead, and they're probably going to kill you now. They'd probably been laughing about that as you sat there. Cryo-whatever was probably code for getting rid of someone.

For so long, it's all been about the war, about the Enemy. But the war's over. If what Zola said is true, the Allies won. What does it matter if you die now?

Steve's gone. That blonde idiot who smells like asthma medicine and sweat and charcoal. You still think about him like he's smaller than you, but when you were back at camp you watched him heave a jeep halfway off the ground.

You always knew somewhere deep down that this war would kill both of you, and you hadn't wanted that, so you'd said no to the draft, and had begged Steve not to keep enlisting, but he hadn't listened, had he? And he's gone now. And you'll be gone soon too.

It's coming now. You can feel it creeping on you, blank and endless. You can go find Steve, wherever he is. You've always followed him.

Suddenly, pain shoots into your legs, and you look down, hands pressed against the glass with sudden urgency, because there's ice, ice everywhere, and you open your mouth in panic, wondering what the fuck is going on because this sure as fuck isn't the death you were hoping for, but your lips are numb and everything's slow and so cold. You can still feel it when the tears leaking from your eyes freeze over, and you watch your terrified reflection in the glass go still.

_-Steve, it's cold, Steve, I'm here, I'm here, please, keep breathing I'm right here it's okay-_

And just between the ice and the dark, you find him, and hold him close, and you promise him it's all over, and you pray to god that it is.

\-----

Steve's such a fucking idiot sometimes. You wonder how he got along without you for two whole years.

“Listen,” you whisper, patting his knee, “Just fucking relax, will you? I'm good. I'm good right now. It's okay. You know I kinda love you, but you're just being too fucking careful around me right now. I'm not fucking porcelain.” You give his hand a squeeze. “Just sit the fuck down and let me go talk to the nice people, 'kay?”

He sighs, nodding, and you press a light kiss to his cheek. You can't stop your eyes from darting around – you still feel like someone will see and object – but no one's even noticed.

The auditorium is mostly empty, only a dozen or so vets sitting near the front. You and Steve are off to the side, waiting for the regular meeting to finish before you stand up.

Steve's been here before, has given talks here before, so you weren't as nervous about the prospect of coming today as you could have been. And just to be safe, you got here an hour early and checked the whole building out.

Sam's standing at the podium, finishing up the meeting by thanking everyone for coming. He looks good up there, in his t-shirt and jeans and big smile. He's got the body of a dedicated soldier, flat planes and edges that have been smoothed by hard work. He nods to you; you nod back.

“And now,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “There's someone who'd like to talk to you today.” His eyes flick over the crowd, calmly drawing attention back to the stage. “You may know him from other meetings, but today he'd like to talk a little bit about himself for the first time.” He beckons with a grin, eyes lit up.

You stand automatically, mouth suddenly dry. For all your comforting words to Steve, you're suddenly nervous. It's not the anxiety, not the gasping fear that makes you put your head between your knees – it's stage fright, pure and simple, mixed with some embarrassment. You haven't spoken to more than five people at a time in seventy years. You force yourself to step forward, towards the podium, and Sam reaches out towards you gently.

He claps you on your metal shoulder, and you hardly flinch. “It's good to see you, man,” he says, and you give him a half-smile. “If you need to stop, just let me know,” he continues. “We all know it's hard to talk about it at first.”

The knot of worry in your chest loosens, and you give him a full smile now, lips quirking and spreading. “Aye, aye, Captain,” you murmur in response, and he snorts, looking towards Steve.

“In my dreams,” he replies, then seems to reconsider. “Actually, maybe my nightmares. I have _zero_ interest in wearing spandex and throwing around a giant metal frisbee.”

You finally laugh, low and relaxed. “I think you'd look good in spandex. But maybe not the blue. You're more of a Summer.” You once read through an entire stack of magazines in the VA lounge to stave off a panic attack, and they were very informative about outdoor grilling and a seasonal color palette for clothing and skintone. You were interested to find that you were an Autumn.

“Got me there. I'm a sucker for red.” He turns back towards the vets. “Alright everyone, I'd like you say hello to James for me.”

“Hi, James,” the crowd says, and you step up the microphone.

“So, um, hi,” you say at last. “I'm James, and I'm a veteran of the US military.” Most veterans gave their name and rank, but some refrained, and right now you don't feel comfortable taking the title of sergeant anymore, even though you technically still hold it.

You take a deep breath. “I was a POW for a long time,” you say. You've thought long and hard about how you want to say this, and recently you've started to realize that you _were_ a POW in many ways, even if you were mostly imprisoned in your own mind. “And a lot of horrible shit happened. I did a lot of horrible shit to try to stay alive. And when I came back, it was like nothing and everything had changed.” You look at the crowd, not sure what you expect to see on their faces, but all you see is empathy and sadness, the nods of people who have seen and participated in the horrors of war.

Steve's got a complicated expression on his face, but he's watching you like he always does, like everything you say is magic. The thought makes you smile.

“When Sam first talked to me about coming down here, I didn't want anything to do with it.” You run a hand through your hair with a shaky laugh. “I guess I just never really considered myself a vet, you know? Sure, I did my time in the army, but the time I spent... away kind of overshadows that to me.”

“When my boyfriend-” you relish the way the word tastes in your mouth, relish the smiles the other vets cast your way “-asked me about it, I told him the truth: I didn't feel like I had anything to offer. I'd spent most of my time locked up, or being hurt, or out cold. Those years are a blur, and I'm glad, but they're also a big part of who I am. But my friend Nat said something that stuck with me – she told me that these meetings weren't about what I could offer. They were about what the support of other vets could offer _me_.”

Your voice hitches a little on the last word, but you quickly clear your throat. “So, um, yeah. I wanted to say thanks. I still don't feel like I, um, deserve support from anybody. But it's... nice to have people listen to me. So, thanks.” You step away, and there are murmurs from the crowd, but it sounds positive, and as you walk back to your seat, adrenaline still making you hyperaware of your surroundings, several of the vets lean over to offer handshakes and understanding smiles.

Steve's eyes are wet, you realize when you sit down.

“That was great,” he says, and his voice cracks like it hasn't since he was twelve, and he pulls you into a half-hug that feels a little rougher than usual. You're glad; it seems like he took your words about not being fragile to heart. “I'm so proud of you,” he whispers, and your eyes burn.

“Thanks,” you croak, wrapping your arms around him in return. “Thanks a lot.” Every time you touch him, it feels like some of the ice inside you melts away.

\-----

For an ex-KGB assassin and spy, Natasha is a surprisingly excellent cook. A bowl of steaming каша and a plate stacked with _butterbrots_ clatters down in front of you, the smell of fresh bread and ham rising into the kitchen. You're grateful for the four boiled eggs she's put on the plate too, knowing that you need more protein with your enhanced metabolism. You have no idea where she found the time to learn to cook, but apparently she's put in the effort.

You've been given the somewhat intimidating honor of being taken to the apartment she shares with Clint. You're aware that no one else, not even Sam and Steve, has seen this place, and you spent your first five minutes here staring at the décor, memorizing everything to tell them later. It's surprisingly homey, with errant weapons scattered around like other people might leave out their laundry.

Her lilting voice breaks into your thoughts. “Eat,” she orders, the Russian smooth on her tongue. “It took me half an hour to find the каша in the Український market downtown.” She plunks down two cups of strong coffee, taking one for herself.

Your lips quirk as you dig in. It's just like you remember, the porridge heavy on your tongue; she's added honey today. You go through most of your bowl before you remember to take a bite of the _butterbrots_ , and you make a happy noise in the back of your throat.

Natasha gives you a deeply satisfied grin. “You like it.” It's not a question. “Good. I'll teach you how to make it.”

You take a gulp of coffee to swill some of the ham's sweetness from your mouth. “I didn't know you could buy каша grain here. Do you cook it often?” You like talking to her like this. It gives you a chance to fall back into yourself, to find the pieces of yourself that you like. You like speaking Russian; you've always had a taste for languages, and you don't want to lose the ones you've got.

She shrugs. “Once in a while, when I'm in the mood. I mostly have toast with avocado, or jam.” She sips her own coffee, sighing through her nose. “I don't usually like thinking about the old days. Too depressing.”

So, she avoids it too. Avoids thinking about what she's done, what they made her do. You eye her warily, then decide to take a risk.

“Have you ever thought about going back?” you ask, and her eyes snap to yours. “Not going back to them,” you amend hastily, “I mean going back home. Back to Russia.”

She looks away, a rare moment of hesitation for her. She runs a hand through her ear-length hair, now dyed a red so dark it's almost black. “I think about it every day,” she says at last. “I miss the cities, and the smell of the ice, and the warmth from buying a scalding drink when frost is crackling in the air.” She smiles wistfully. “I've done it here, but it's different. The night is different. I miss the shapes of the rooftops in Moscow, the way the old buildings stand above the rest.” She stirs her coffee absently. “I hope I can go back someday. Not as- not working, but as me. As Natasha.”

“I miss the ice,” you blurt in English, and see the flash of worry in her eyes. “Not the ice they put me in,” you clarify. “The ice in the mountains where I trained. There was just me, and my gun, and a target painted on the side of a tree. There were no distractions, just the wind pushing around me, just a target and my scope. All I had to do was focus.” You run your fingers over the outside of one boiled egg, cracking the shell and picking pieces off. “I miss knowing what I had to do.” You pop it into your mouth whole and begin to chew.

You flinch at Natasha's touch; you hadn't even heard her move, but what did you expect? Her hand covers your metal one, and she offers you a moment of quiet. “You can find that again,” she says. “I found it. Clint found it.”

You swallow the last of the egg. “Steve's still looking,” you say, looking away. “But I don't know what he's trying to find.”

“Himself?” she asks mildly, switching back to Russian and withdrawing her hand. “He's a lot of things, but he's not exactly good at hiding his feelings.” She eyes you shrewdly. “And it seems like he could use some help with his search.”

A laugh forces its way from between your lips. “Me? Help Steve find himself? I don't know where you've been, but that isn't exactly my area of expertise.”

Her eyes bore into yours. “Isn't it?”

You have to look away under the force of her gaze. “He's stronger than me. He can do it.”

“No,” she says, and your gaze settles on her again. “Not stronger. Different. And you did it alone. All that time you told me you spent holed up in some apartment, dragging yourself out of the Winter Soldier? That was strength. That was a strong man finding the courage to keep going.”

You rub your eyes, suddenly tired of talking. “I'm not strong.”

“Why not?” she asks, and her voice is hard, hard like the winter, and you remember that she was born from it too.

“Because,” you mumble, eyes flickering over the empty plates before you. “Because I couldn't end it when I had the chance. I couldn't make myself just _do_ it. I could have died a thousand times. I had my knife, my guns, my grenades. I could have just stepped in front of a bus. But I didn't.”

Natasha's hand snaps out, flicking you on the nose with just enough force to startle you. You lean back, bewildered, and stare at the seriousness of her gaze.

“That is not weakness,” she says flatly. “I don't care who you are, that is not weakness. Wanting to live is not a crime.” Her hands are curled into tight fists. “You are _here, now_ , and you have a chance to live again. Even if it's not how you imagined it, you're here. And you have Steve, and Sam, and you have me.” Her tone softens. “We need you here. We all need you and want you here.”

Emotion seizes your throat, and you swallow hard, fighting back tears that are threatening to spill. “I almost couldn't go to Sam's thing,” you say. “I couldn't just fucking walk into that room full of veterans – people who fought for their country and their families and their _lives_ – and pretend like that was me. Like that is me.” You give a shaky laugh and wipe some dampness off your forehead; you hadn't even realized you were sweating. “Right now I'm not really sure what 'me' means.”

“It means whatever you want it to mean,” Natasha says, leaning back in her seat. “You can choose who you want to be. No one gets to tell you that ever again.”

You think about that for a moment, sipping your coffee; it's gone cold.

“I used to be the Winter Soldier,” you say, and there's a finality about it, because you're not, _you're not_ , and you're going to burn the Winter Soldier out of yourself if you have to. “But I'll be damned if I'm just walking around like a normal person before we know I'm not gonna hurt anybody. I wanna meet Stark junior, and I want him to check out my arm.” You flex the fingers slowly. “And I want to talk to a doctor. A medical doctor, one who can do blood tests and stuff. I want to know what the hell they did to my body, and I want to know if there's anything wrong with me.” That's your real fear, the one you've left unvoiced in all the time you've been with Steve. You worry that you're going to die without Hydra. That you're just a severed head, expendable.

Natasha nods approvingly. “Sounds good. As it happens, Tony can do pretty much any medical testing you can imagine. I'll set up a meeting if you want. But... it might be better if we don't do it in his lab, right?” She sounds cautious, anxious not to overstep her bounds.

But you're glad for her caution. You hadn't even thought about it, what being back in a lab might do to you. “I- yeah. Somewhere quiet and safe. No medical tables. And I want to see everything he does. And afterwards, I want him to destroy the samples or whatever. I want this shit to stop.” You clench your hand. “I'm sick of not knowing what's going on with my own body.”

She stands, and you admire the way she moves, relaxed and coiled at the same time. “I understand,” she says, and you believe her. From what you know, she spent much of her life with the same questions you have now. “We'll do our best, Bucky.” It's the first time she's said your name today. “And when we're done, we can see about you and Steve getting some time off for some soul-searching. Sound good?”

You've got a working list in your head a mile and a half long, starting with anyone who's ever been a part of Hydra or fucked with Steve in any way, but you nod. You know that Steve needs some time to deal with himself. He's been putting it off by focusing on you, but you've seen the warning signs before. The blonde idiot's just too damn invested in other people's opinions to take care of himself. Looks like you'll have to be in charge of that for a while. It's almost like you're back in 1937, holding him up at night so that he can cough the wet from his lungs, being best friend and lover and occasional nurse. The thought makes you smile.

Natasha catches the smile and the corners of her eyes crease. “It'll be okay. Someday, it'll be okay.” She starts to clear up the plates, and you stand up to help her.

“There's a lot mixed up in here,” you say quietly. “There's a lot of _me_ mixed up in here. And I needed time to sort this shit out before I invited other people into it.” You rub your nose with the back of your wrist. “That's why I stayed away so long, after the helicarrier. I couldn't deal with myself, and I couldn't make anyone else deal with me.”

Natasha's hand is warm on your back. “It's a little late,” she says teasingly. “Considering that you've shot me twice and then I EMPed your arm and got you in a chokehold with my thighs. We're practically best friends.”

You snort, rinsing the dishes. “Good thing I didn't hit anything vital, or you'd probably consider us engaged.”

She laughs, and the sound is bright and warm in the shadow of the winter you both came from. “I'll let Cap know the good news. Pretty sure your fight on the helicarrier was grounds for marriage.”

You throw her a look, but she just smiles back, face almost disturbingly catlike.

\-----

“Nnnghh,” you groan, pushing Steve off you. “You smell.”

He chokes out a laugh, still panting. “So do you.” He kisses your cheek and you lean into the touch. “That's never stopped us.” But he rolls over so you have room to breathe and stretch out.

“You're so gross,” you say groggily, knowing that your system's still flooded with endorphins and not caring. “Why am I with you?”

Steve goes still, and you realize immediately that that was the wrong thing to say. You turn over, leaning on your metal arm. “Hey, soldier boy,” you whisper, brushing warm fingers over his chin. “I was only kidding.” You lean in slow, hesitating at first, but then finding your resolve. You brush your lips over his. “I know exactly why I'm with you,” you mutter, and kiss him again. “It's because I love you, stupid.”

He finally cracks a smile, and you kiss him again, but then you realize that the smile is turning into sobs, and you hold him close as the tears come in a rush.

“I missed you, Bucky,” he gasps out, his face pushed into your shoulder, the line where metal meets flesh pressing against his forehead. “I missed you so much, and I couldn't say anything to anybody. Peggy was swell, but I didn't know if she'd have understood if I said I'd been in love with my best friend.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed and wet and hot. “I missed you every day. I wanted you here with me.”

“Me too, Steve,” you murmur back, and kiss his temple. “I missed you so bad it broke me.”

“I've got a confession, Buck,” he says, voice muffled against your collarbone. “I think I'm a little broken too.”

“I know, Steve.” You pull him tighter into your arms and let the sobs slowly fade away. “But I'm here now. I'm here, and it's gonna be okay. It might not be the same, but it's gonna be okay.”

You pull him up slowly, when his chest has stopped heaving, and look him in the eye. “I love you,” you say again, and keep your eyes open while you kiss him.

Fresh tears are blossoming in the corners of his eyes. “I love you too,” he croaks, and this time you both close your eyes.

You lean back after a moment, cradling his face in your hands. “I need something from you, Steve.”

“Anything,” he says, and you feel a little guilty, because you know he'd do just about anything for you.

“Okay, two things actually. Two promises.” You stroke his cheek with your thumbs, and his eyelashes flutter. “I need you to take me down if I'm ever brainwashed again.” You're no fool. You know it's a very real possibility that someday someone will want to control you again.

His cornflower-blue eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to object, but you wrap a metal palm around it. “No, stop it. _Listen_ to me. You've been doing most of the talking since I came back, and I appreciate it, but right now you need to shut your trap, alright?” You let your hand slide away, trying not to think about the touch of saliva you know is on your fingers now.

“Alright, Buck,” he replies at last. “I'm listening.” He folds his hands behind his head and looks at you intently, and you want to swat him because the movement does great things to the muscles in his arms.

“Secondly, I need you to promise that you're not gonna give up on yourself.” You stare at him. “You're too good for that. I believe in you. But I need you to believe it too.”

He looks away, shy, and you know that confidence has never been his strongest suit. Righteous anger, sure, but not confidence.

You try again. “I need those promises, Steve. And I need them now.” You hold up a pinky. “You promise?”

He must see in your eyes that he's not going to win this argument, because he groans and locks pinkies with you. “I promise. But only under duress,” he grumbles. “And I reserve the right to knock you out and bring you home in the event that I need to fulfill the first promise.”

You chuckle, bringing your head close for another kiss. “Duly noted.” Your arms snake around him, and he pulls in closer.

“You're a real dick, you know that?” he says after a minute. “You couldn't just let me wallow for a little while longer?”

You laugh and nudge his ribs. “You're too big to wallow. And you know I'm a sucker for blondes in tight pants.”

He rolls over you, bracing his arms next to your head, and kisses you deep and long and thoroughly, until you're a little out of breath. “I know, Bucky,” he says quietly. “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Researching and writing this chapter was kind of stressful, because I have a huge torture phobia and writing about anxiety makes me anxious. But it was worth it in the end, and I hope you enjoyed the story.
> 
> Translation note: каша is a type of porridge, _butterbrots_ is bread with butter or ham, and Український means "Ukrainian."


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